


you make the knees of my bees weak (tremble and buckle)

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This," John says, lips brushing the nape of Sherlock's neck as he crouches behind him, "is the most ridiculous position I've ever tried."</p><p>Sherlock turns his head slightly. "If that's true," he says, in mock disappointment, "you've been not nearly as sexually adventurous as your nickname led me to believe." John bites his earlobe gently in response. "Tell me," Sherlock continues, "was it women <i>from</i> three continents or <i>on</i> three continents you bedded?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	you make the knees of my bees weak (tremble and buckle)

**Author's Note:**

> A nonsense title for a nonsense fic; just trying to work through some writer's block.

"This," John says, lips brushing the nape of Sherlock's neck as he crouches behind him, "is the most ridiculous position I've ever tried."  
  
Sherlock turns his head slightly. "If that's true," he says, in mock disappointment, "you've been not nearly as sexually adventurous as your nickname led me to believe." John bites his earlobe gently in response. "Tell me," Sherlock continues, "was it women _from_ three continents or _on_ three continents you bedded?"  
  
John kisses the spot just behind his ear, fingertips nudging between Sherlock's thighs, and Sherlock's breath catches. "Women?" he murmurs, deliberately, into the shell of Sherlock's ear.  
  
Sherlock huffs in irritation, and not at the mention of John's previous partners (previous, suggesting he _has_ a current partner), but at getting it _wrong_ for so _long_ , at never hearing the subtext in "not gay" (an _unforgivable_ oversight), at the update to what he knows to be true of John Watson never quite _taking_ -  
  
"Partners," he amends, with a curl of his lip, and John leans forward, chest warm against Sherlock's back, to press a series of kisses along the line of his jaw.  
  
"Oh, _partners_?" John teases, gently. He pauses, near Sherlock's chin, and adds, with _hatefully_ infectious mirth, "And I'll never tell."  
  
Sherlock turns properly into the kiss, abruptly, and John's mouth moves against his, slow and deliberate, until Sherlock's toes are curling helplessly in the carpet.  
  
"You'd," he pulls back to murmur against John's mouth, "best be getting on with it." John leans away for a disorientating moment, returning to press a condom into his hand; Sherlock blinks, perplexed. "John-" they dispensed with the need for prophylactics _months_ ago, and even when they _had_ used them, it was John, always _John_ -  
  
John kisses his cheek, laugh high-pitched and _lovely_. "I knew you weren't listening, you cock," he says, so affectionately that Sherlock inhales, sharply, as he searches for the conversation -  
  
(stomach down, hips pushing rhythmically into his pillow, John straddling his thigh, his knuckles teasing - _catching_ \- at his rim, his fingers (and John's fingers aren't remarkably long, but, _oh_ , they're clever), twisting and brushing and _searching_ and Sherlock lifts his hips up - into, away from, can't _decide_ \- the touch.  
  
John's other hand grips his hip, firmly. "I think," he says, like he's pondering it, "I'd like to have you over your armchair," and Sherlock's breath catches - at the phrasing (a semantic preference for _have_ over _take_ and _fuck_ , and hasn't John been paying _attention_ , he marvels) and the _idea_ -  
  
"I would be - amenable," he swallows, mouth dry, "to - to that."  
  
"Good," John murmurs, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock between his shoulder blades, and Sherlock gasps, quietly, at the change in angle. "That's good.")  
  
"Oh," he remembers, "Furniture. Clean-up. Dull." Those details hadn't seemed particularly important, but he dutifully rolls the condom on.  
  
"Maybe," John says, agreeably, as his fingers sink back into him, his touch methodical, careful -  
  
(John - so impressively perceptive, especially being rather indifferent to prostate stimulation himself - happily, _enthusiastically_ , fingers Sherlock until his wrist cramps and he's forced to swap hands, until Sherlock's breathless and writhing, hands twisting in their sheets; pushes Sherlock's sweat-damp hair back off his forehead, presses his lips to Sherlock's brow and whispers, "You are _incredible_.")  
  
\- and it's the inescapability, the _relentlessness_ of John's touch he craves, and it's nothing more than an unfortunate and previously-insurmountable height difference that doesn't work to their advantage when John bends him over the kitchen table, or takes him on all fours -  
  
(he brings his legs together and lifts up a bit, for a bit of breathing room, when it all becomes just too _much_ )  
  
\- but here, kneeling in front of his arm chair, John crouched behind him, he has nowhere to go, and his breath quickens at the thought.  
  
John kisses his jaw one more time, awkward angle be _damned_ , before slowly withdrawing his fingers. "OK?" he checks.  
  
" _Eminently_ ," he says, honestly, leaning into his chair, and he can hear the slap of John's hand as he slicks himself up (and he's quite possibly panting, just a little). He presses against, into, Sherlock, fucking into him with slow, progressively deeper thrusts, the drag so _exquisite_ that Sherlock can only gasp, " _John_."  
  
John jerks behind him when he's flush against Sherlock's back, mouths lazily at his neck.  
  
"I just," he murmurs into the curve of Sherlock's shoulder; he swallows, hard, "need-" and Sherlock nods, tries to give him a moment, even as he shifts, restlessly, hands scrabbling at the cushion of his seat, the pressure, the _stretch_ , so deep -  
  
and with a huff of a laugh, John starts to move, a little cautiously, at first, testing his balance, hands roaming up Sherlock's sides, gripping his shoulders, before settling clasped across his chest, and Sherlock groans, burying his face in crossed arms on the chair (not yet far gone enough to not be self-conscious of his unforgivably _pedestrian_ reactions).  
  
Hips pumping lazily, John's grip loosens for a moment as he reaches forward and takes Sherlock's right hand in his, lacing their fingers together, tugging his hand up off the chair, guiding it back, behind him, _between_ them, until they're gripping Sherlock's arse cheek. He leaves Sherlock's hand there and swaps hands, bringing Sherlock's left hand down to join it.  
  
Sherlock turns his head to the side, cheek catching on the leather, as John slowly spreads him open, and he clenches around John at the thought, the filthy _picture_ he must make - but John groans, pulling back out until the head of his cock is rubbing against Sherlock, insistently.  
  
"Oh, that's lovely," John says, softly, watching himself sink back in, and Sherlock makes a strangled noise into the seat.  
  
John grabs Sherlock's shoulders and fucks into him _hard_ , brushing just where Sherlock _needs_ him, and Sherlock can't catch his _breath_ , as he tries to fuck back onto John.  
  
"Christ," John grunt, humping into him frantically, now, without finesse, and it is _glorious_.    
  
Sherlock closes his eyes, every thrust rubbing him just _right_ , pushing him closer, and he arches his back a bit to try and lift up, for a moment's reprieve, just to gather himself, but John lifts up with him, relentlessly pushing into him and Sherlock cries out, surprised.  
  
John bands an arm around his chest again, his free hand reaching up, fingers brushing Sherlock's chin, and Sherlock sucks his first two fingers into his mouth desperately, tonguing John's fingertips, laving the space between them, and John swears against his shoulder.  
  
And mindful of the fact that there's only so long before John's thighs begin to burn, of the fact that John - so considerate a lover - is hanging on for _his_ sake, Sherlock takes his own prick in hand, cups and rubs, so tightly _wound_ , so _close_ already that he's trembling.  
  
"Oh, you're brilliant," John murmurs as he works a hand over himself (the thin layer of latex not dulling the sensation enough to distract him terribly), and John shortens his strokes, rubbing back and forth over Sherlock's prostate, and Sherlock makes a noise not unlike a sob.  
  
He hunches over on himself, twisting and jerking, as John continues to brush his prostate, and Sherlock's free hand lands on the seat cushion, fingertips digging in _hard_. He can feel it building, low in his abdomen, in the base of his spine, his nerves prickling and he makes a choked noise as he starts to come.  
  
John fucks him through it, gentling his thrusts, as Sherlock shakes, trying again to lift up, and John follows him, rocking into him, and his toes squeeze together as he clenches down on John through the aftershocks.  
  
He sucks in a noisy breath, John still moving slowly inside him, thumbing Sherlock's nipple, almost idly. Sherlock pushes himself up on shaky arms. "Now you," he says, voice not much steadier, and John pulls out, sitting back on his heels, as Sherlock turns around.  
  
He pushes John back onto the living room floor, legs unfolding from beneath him as he stretches out his abused thighs. Sherlock all but rips the condom off John, flinging it aside, blindly, and John's groan - part laughter, anyway - breaks off when Sherlock leans down to swallow his prick (pausing only briefly to grimace at the faint taste of latex).  
  
John might never have made his preferences _explicitly_ clear, but he loves Sherlock's mouth, loves touching a thumb to the corner of his stretched lips as he works his mouth over him, and he does it now, fingers resting against Sherlock's throat as he swallows, convulsively.  
  
"Brilliant," John says again, tightly, this time, and if fellatio perhaps reduces his admittedly already-limited vocabulary, Sherlock can't find it in himself to _care_ , pulling off a bit to tongue at the head of John's prick, to trace the slit, to purse his lips in a filthy kiss against the glans.  
  
He reaches up to tease the slick head of John's prick with his fingertips as he places a series of sucking kisses down the length of his shaft, and John's knees lift up, restlessly, at the teasing touch.  
  
Sherlock nuzzles in against his bollocks, mouthing at them, before lifting back up and replacing his hand with his mouth again. John's hips push up, instinctively, into the touch, and Sherlock hums a little in encouragement, until John fucks up into Sherlock with short, sharp jabs, his grunting desperate and _beautiful_.  
  
He comes with a long groan, in a few pulses that Sherlock swallows eagerly, pulling back to lap at the head of his prick again, and John lets out a gorgeous sigh.  
  
Sherlock finally sits up again, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and John throws a forearm over his eyes, lets out a choked-off laugh, and Sherlock lowers himself beside, onto, John's chest, head resting on his shoulder.  
  
As he'd hoped, John runs a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly over his scalp, and he tilts his face up to kiss the curve of John's collarbone.  
  
There's a pause.  
  
"Well. That," John swallows, uncovering his face, "was -"  
  
"Shut up," Sherlock murmurs, without heat. He's _busy_. He folds the memory up carefully, precise, crisp creases; and while there's not a moment of intimacy with John he'll ever forget, he files this with his other favourite moments of sexual congress with John (the first time John touched him, eyes darting over Sherlock's face, licking his lips nervously, breath stuttering as badly as Sherlock's; the first time John had penetrated him, slow and careful, as he pressed Sherlock into the mattress; the first time he'd climaxed twice, his eyes wide and shocked, John's dark, impressed and so, _impossibly_ aroused). He takes a moment, trails his fingertips over each of them deliberately -  
  
\- and when he comes to again, John's still playing idly with his hair.  
  
"Mind palace?" John asks, rhetorically, urging Sherlock up for a slow kiss.  
  
"Mmnn," Sherlock hums, against his mouth, and John's shaking with laughter beneath him - and there's nothing overtly funny; it's a joyous, simply _happy_ laugh that Sherlock _adores_ , and he settles back against John's side  
  
(and he's almost certain that John feels the curve of a smile on his lips when he presses a kiss to John's still-trembling chest).  
  


 


End file.
